


Bless Me

by strive2bhappy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 23:02:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1322533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strive2bhappy/pseuds/strive2bhappy





	Bless Me

someone, named [](http://altruisticinteg.livejournal.com/profile)[ **altruisticinteg**](http://altruisticinteg.livejournal.com/) made me do this, so please blame her...

 **Title:**   Bless Me  
 **Pairing:**  Sam/Dean  
 **Rating:**  NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:**  Lord, I don't own this stuff. In fact, if you have ANYTHING to do with the show, get out of here. Seriously, hit back RIGHT NOW.   
 **A/N:**  [](http://altruisticinteg.livejournal.com/profile)[ **altruisticinteg**](http://altruisticinteg.livejournal.com/) showed me a photo of the boys in priest collars from season one. this is the bunny that hopped through my head. it's wrong and irreverent and you shouldn't read it. seriously.

 

| 

It's been a while since they worked a priest con and Sam really should feel more guilty than he does about the scratchy white collar at his neck, but knowing first-hand how screwed up the hierarchy of heaven actually is helps cuts down on his sense of remorse.  
  
Plus, the sight of his brother in ass-hugging, black formal wear never hurts, either.  
  
In fact, if Dean slides his hands into the front pockets of his pants so the tails of his coat open over said ass one more time, Sam really should not be held responsible for what he does at the pot luck parish supper they're currently attending.  
  
Fortunately, Dean's attention gets caught on an entire table of homemade pies and he abandons Sam for the pastries, leaving Sam alone to talk to the neighbor who saw the "weird lights in the cemetery" last week.  
  
The woman, bless her doddering heart, doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense and is more interested in bragging about her grandchildren and their college plans than discussing a possible poltergeist sighting.  
  
Sam can't help but smile at the genuine affection in her stories, though, and doesn't mind spending twenty minutes listening to her explain how it was Tyler came to choose Duke over Pitt.  
  
By the time the dinner is winding down, it's pretty clear they're dealing with a simple salt and burn to put the spirit to rest and it's likely something they can tackle the following evening when the entire congregation of the church will be marching in the annual holiday parade.  
  
They're both insanely mellow -- and stuffed full of rich, satisfying home-cooking -- on the trip back to the motel.  
  
"Seriously, man, I think she roasted the pecans first or something," Dean's saying, with that special tone of homage he uses for really good food. "And she mixed vanilla and…something…fresh molasses or something. And it was just…fuck, so good."  
  
"You should write a review for the local paper," Sam quips.  
  
Dean's eyes light up as he makes the turn into the motel lot, "Dude, I should."  
  
"Make sure you get the 'fuck, so good' in there. Townsfolk'll love it," Sam murmurs as he rolls himself out of the Impala and ambles into the room. He really shouldn't have had thirds on the lasagna, but damn, it was just the right consistency and ratio of meat and cheese and pasta.  
  
He knows it's a sign he's clearly been around his brother too long when he starts waxing philosophic about the quality of the meals they eat.  
  
Sam's so lethargic, he only just manages to toss his coat over the nearest chair and make it to the bed before has to sit down. Once he's down, he has to lie back, fully clothed, close his eyes and breathe for a bit.  
  
It's rare they get a case that's not only as simple as this one, but also makes them feel like part of the town; like people can trust them and know that they're okay to share stories with and feed and generally fuss over. It's nice.  
  
Although, if he's being honest, he knows the priest outfits help on that score.  
  
It's the smallest sound -- an exhalation of breath caught just around the edge of a groan -- that has Sam opening his eyes to find Dean, standing at the foot of the bed, expression saying Sam looks far more tempting than the pecan pie he raved about mere seconds ago.  
  
Once they make eye contact, Dean smirks and bites his lower lip.  
  
And like that, between one blink and the next, Sam's lassitude is gone. His heart kicks into a double-time beat and his cock thickens against his zipper. Dean always has that affect, especially when he embodies sin personified.  
  
"Dean," Sam tries to warn -- they're both still dressed in their collars and pants and shirts. It's not only inappropriate on a variety of levels, it's also going to fuck up their good dress clothes.  
  
His brother doesn't heed the advice and instead, knees his way onto the bed until he's straddling Sam's hips, fabric chafing and scratching together, and Dean whispers, "Bless me father, for I'm about to fucking sin."  
  
Sam tries not to moan, he really, really does, but fuck, the words and the feel of Dean against him are too much and the sound chokes its way out of his throat.  
  
Now Dean's smirk is a full-blown, dirty smile and he grinds down, rubbing cloth and cocks against each other in a dizzying display of rhythm and friction. Sam can actually feel a blurt of precome smear inside his boxer briefs and he makes an attempt to stop this from spiraling any more out of control, "Just… _ugnh_  Dean…let me get out of these c-clothes…"  
  
"No way, father," Dean murmurs, as he leans forward, connecting them from groin to chest. "Gotta look the part if you're gonna absolve me."  
  
It shouldn't be hot. Christ, Sam knows it shouldn't be, but his dick seems to think otherwise and truthfully, Sam's never had a lot of control where his brother's concerned.  
  
"C'mon, Sammy," Dean murmurs against Sam's mouth. "Wanna re-enact one of the seven deadly?"  
  
Sam thinks for the craziest second he can actually hear the  _fuck it_  in his head. He surges up, grabs fistfuls of Dean's shirt and attacks his brother's mouth. Dean's thick, sinful, biteable, so very fuckable mouth.  
  
Dean makes a noise of grateful assent and leans his body weight into Sam to accept and actively participate in the kiss. And if there's one thing Sam's discovered without a doubt, it's that Dean can kiss -- he uses his whole body, hips and hands and mouth to thoroughly ravage and disarm Sam so he barely knows where he ends and his brother begins.  
  
Dean pulls away only far enough to murmur, "that's my boy," before gliding back into Sam's mouth.  
  
They make out until Sam's lips tingle and feel puffy and swollen, kissing with a pulse and cadence that starts to shake the mattress, adding another level to the soundtrack of the wet groans and licks and unstable breaths. Dean varies the intensity and heat by pulling back to nibble and lap at Sam's lips and use his tongue on Sam's teeth, all of which just make Sam blindly follow his brother's mouth to experience each quiver and throb of pleasure.  
  
When Dean curls his fingers deep into Sam's hair and and holds Sam's head immobile, Sam goes pliant and lets Dean take control for what seems like an endless passage of time. Impatience bubbles along side the arousal and Sam has to tug and yank on Dean's button down and t-shirt until they both come free from the back of Dean's pants and Sam can get his hands on warm skin. Dean whimpers softly and arches like a cat against Sam's touch, a response that never fails to jack the heat in the room one degree hotter and slot their cocks perfectly side-by-side.  
  
Sam disconnects their mouths in a messy slide of lips and growls, "Shit, Dean," while pulling unsuccessfully at his brother's belt, "get these off. Off."  
  
He wants to fuck now, the impulse sudden and overwhelming -- the long, dirty make out session just amplifying his fervor and he wants inside Dean  _yesterday_. The fact that they're still fully clothed -- priest collars and all -- and Sam's cock is slipping and soaked in his boxer briefs from his own precome is ratcheting the frenzy and need that much higher with each breath.  
  
Dean's clumsy now with urge to get fucked, and he only manages to get free of one leg, wiggling out of one side of his boxers and kicking the shoe halfway across the room in the process, before settling back down against Sam's crotch. And Jesus, the sight of Dean, face so incredibly unguarded, jaw slack, almost visibly pulsing with want, cock red and thick and framed by the hem of his shirt, priest collar scraping against his throat when he swallows is enough to nearly make Sam come in his pants.  
  
It's sheer grit and will that keep Sam from spilling over and his own movements aren't graceful as he rips open his belt and zipper, gasping at the release of pressure and the feel of his wet dick rubbing half against his brother's naked thigh and half against his pants.  
  
He's murmuring  _Dean_  and _fuck_  and  _need you_  and a  _baby_  slips in there, but he hopes Dean's too far gone to be paying that close of attention because Sam can't control the terms of endearment that get past him in these moments. He's sloppy -- so fucking sloppy -- when he wets his first two fingers in his own mouth and gets as much saliva as possible against Dean's ass, slippery and slick against the wrinkled pucker before pushing just the tip of his middle finger inside.  
  
Dean keens, low and soft, and says, "Fuck yes, Sammy,  _God_."  
  
Sam's not sure which one of them actually seats his finger deep inside Dean's ass, but it sinks in so easily, so quickly, Sam sucks in a sharp breath and marvels at what his brother can take. Dean's amazing, in so many ways, but he's never more incandescent than in these moments, practically glowing with the sensation of being filled and the abject adoration on his face is almost too much for Sam to take -- he never feels worthy of that kind of devotion.  
  
It's uncanny how Dean leans forward, just when Sam has those thoughts, and whispers what should be nonsense words like  _always_  and  _the two of us_  and _mine_. Sam shivers and seriously has to wonder if his brother didn't acquire some psychic ability, too, to know exactly when Sam needs the reassurance.    
  
Sam manages to squeeze a second finger in alongside the first, feeling Dean tremble and shake above him at the penetration and he asks, "Please, Dean, tell me you're good."  
  
Dean pushes back against the fingers and forward against Sam's stomach and says, "God, yes, do it, Sammy. C'mon."  
  
Sam takes one second to hope that spit and precome will be enough and lines his dick up against Dean's ass. The slow slide down is so overwhelming it's nearly heart-stopping and Sam swears they both forget to breathe for a second before they're connected, joined together, deep.  
  
Sam feels the sweat trickle down the side of his face, beyond his collar and he wants to rip his shirt off just to get some cool air on his skin, but he knows from his brother's eyes that part of what's making this whole thing so fucking hot is the fact that they're both still wearing so many clothes -- the bright, stark white of the collars just magnifies it.  
  
"S-Sammy," Dean says, soft.  
  
Sam nods, fingers tracing Dean's one bare leg. "I know, Dean."  
  
Sam can only see the telltale flush of Dean's skin in a strip of red above the priest collar, and that alone makes him push his hips up higher, slipping his cock that millimeter further into his brother and Dean's body jerks like he's been shot.  
  
"F-fuck," Dean whispers and Sam takes it as a command.  
  
He doesn't have a hell of a lot of leverage, but Sam curls his fingers around Dean's hips and ass to lift his brother up and down before Dean really gets into it and takes over, arching and bowing his back, cock leaking on Sam's stomach and shirt, fingers digging into the bedspread beside Sam's head.  
  
Sam growls at the tight, wet heat, clenching against his dick, and he's not necessarily proud of it, but he tends to be a sex babbler and when the fucking gets this sweaty and fevered and intense, he can't keep his mouth shut for the life of him and he moans out, "Fuck yeah, Dean, look at you. Riding my dick. Fucking hot," in rhythm to their hips.  
  
Dean does his part with tiny grunts and moans and whimpers, peppered with Sam's name and shit, Sam knows from the tingle, low on his spine, he's not gonna last.  
  
"Dean," Sam grits out. "You gotta, it's…fuck…"  
  
In a move that almost defies gravity, Sam surges up, holds tight to the small of Dean's back, and twists them both on the mattress so he can fuck his brother the way his body is demanding. He grips Dean's bare knee, shoves it against his brother's chest and pounds into Dean's ass hard enough to shake the bedframe.  
  
It takes only about four rough thrusts before Dean's hips surge up and he comes around an extended, choked out, teeth-gritted whine, splattering his dark shirt with thick ropes of white that nearly make it to the collar.  
  
The sight of his brother's orgasm and the feel of Dean's ass fluttering around his cock, makes Sam's balls pull tight and he comes, pulsing so hard, his full-body shivers reach the very tips of his fingers and toes and he nearly whites out.  
  
He doesn't think when he slumps forward, squashing a breathless groan out of Dean and they gasp together for a full minute.  
  
"Goddamn," Dean huffs.  
  
"Yeah," Sam agrees, figuring they'd taken the irreverence so far that it's stupid to protest the use of Dean's blasphemy at this point.  
  
Dean wraps his arms around Sam, nuzzles his nose into Sam's cheek and says, "We should rock these priest outfits more often."  
  
"Gonna need to get a permanent dry cleaner somewhere," Sam laughs, jerking his hips forward enough to feel a blurt of come drip past where they're still connected and shocking a puff of breath out of Dean.  
  
Sam uncurls his hand from Dean's lower back, and drags it along to mattress to thumb his brother's eyebrow and ask, "Okay?"  
  
Dean nods and scruffs their chins together, "Food and sex coma coming up."  
  
Sam chuckles softly and slides out of Dean with a messy sound and a characteristic noise of regret from Dean that Sam's fairly sure his brother doesn't know he makes at these exact moments, just about every time.  
  
Sam pulls back and says "wow" at the sight.  
  
Dean's pants had somehow gotten wedged underneath them and covered in spunk and spit. Between both their shirts and the crotch of Sam's pants, the suits are pretty much ruined, unless they can find a dry cleaner that asks no questions.  
  
"Nice," Dean laughs, a note of pride in his voice at the destruction. "'Least we can save the collars."  
  
Sam shakes his head and wanders into the bathroom, shedding clothes along the way. By the time he gets back to the bed, Dean's naked and has tossed everything of his onto the floor and is fighting with the bedspread to get underneath.  
  
Sam slips in next to Dean and manages to get a foot between his brothers legs before Dean notices and kicks him away.  
  
Dean, droopy-eyed and weary, leans up to connect their lips in four quick kisses and whispers, "'Night, Sammy."  
  
Sam wonders if Dean realizes the way he says goodnight is the same every evening, too. He's too afraid that bringing it to Dean's attention could result in a loss of the sudden tradition, so Sam settles down, saying nothing.   
  
And despite the physical labor they're looking at tomorrow night in putting the spirit to rest, and the long list of sacrilege they partook in this evening, Sam falls asleep with a smile on his face, wrapped tightly around his brother.  
  
~ end  
  
  
---  
  
  



End file.
